


In the Locker Room

by WordsInTheAtmosphere



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 01:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13513728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsInTheAtmosphere/pseuds/WordsInTheAtmosphere
Summary: Akira hears that Mishima hasn't quit the volleyball team yet, so he watches one of his practices. It turns out having an athletic boyfriend is a bit of a turn-on.





	In the Locker Room

**Author's Note:**

> We talked about Sports Mishima's thighs on twitter. I don't know what to say. This wasn't quite the fic I was planning when I wanted to do one with Sports Mishima.

It just so happens that Akira comes to see Mishima’s volleyball practice one particularly chilly morning. It’s difficult enough to roll out of bed at this ungodly hour, in this ungodly weather (as Morgana protested, refusing to leave the warmth of Akira’s blankets, causing Akira to head to school alone for the first time in a long while), but Akira can’t help but want to look when he’d heard Mishima is still in the volleyball club.

Part of it is concern, of course—Akira still wants to be sure that everything is okay, even if he will never admit it to his boyfriend of a few months (Mishima is strangely prideful that way, not wanting to be coddled as much as Akira ends up doing), but part of it is also curiosity—he has never gotten to see Mishima in action, and this seems like a good chance as any to see for himself. It just so happens that it’s a particularly chilly morning and Mishima is wearing his warm sports jacket when Akira walks into the gym.

It’s a new look on Mishima, one that Akira finds very distracting when paired with his shorts (though Akira finds himself wondering why Mishima isn’t dressed fully for the chill. He really shouldn’t be _that_ surprised though, considering Mishima’s usual outdoors winter attire). The jacket is a size too big and Mishima has to roll his sleeves in order to play volleyball properly, but there’s something especially cool about him when he’s all dressed for sports, moving across the gym floor so effortlessly, that familiar focus in his eyes whenever Mishima is putting his all into something. And maybe, Akira thinks as he watches Mishima serve the volleyball over the net, just maybe, he might be really into the idea of having an athlete boyfriend.  
  
He can’t take his eyes off Mishima the whole time, and when practice is over he buys a bottle of water and slips into the boy’s locker room to find him. As everyone bustles about for their things and file out, eager to leave before the bell rings, Akira makes his way over to Mishima. The boy in question is still leaning against his locker, breathing heavily and clutching the towel around his neck.

“Good job today,” Akira says, and Mishima jumps at his voice, his eyes flying open as he spins around.

“Huh—Akira? What are you doing here?”

“I came early so I can watch your practice. You did great.” Akira tosses the bottle of water to Mishima, glad that he thought to buy it before coming over. Mishima catches it, fumbling a bit, but soon he smiles a little bashfully.

“Thanks. You really didn’t have to come watch me, you know?”

The small hint of happiness in his voice, the warm smile on his face, makes Akira think that coming to watch more often will be a great idea, actually. He watches Mishima downs the water, trying not to stare too much at the way Mishima’s eyes drift half-closed, the slight curve of his adam’s apple undulating with each swallow, the faint flush of his skin from the exercise. By the time they’ve finished talking the locker room is already empty with only the two of them in it.

“I still have to get changed, so I might take a while.” Mishima flashes a brief, apologetic smile before turning to his locker. “You don’t have to wait here if you don’t want to.”

Oh, but he does. As Mishima fiddles with his combination lock, Akira strides up and casually presses his arms on the lockers, his boyfriend right in between. Mishima’s hand freezes, thumb still in the process of finding a number. “You were cool today, Yuuki,” Akira whispers, his voice a low purr. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Even if he can’t see Mishima’s face, he can certainly see the tips of his ears turn a bright shade of red. “Huh? Uh, really?”

“Mhmm.” Akira presses himself close against Mishima’s back, bending over to brush his lips over the shell of Mishima’s ear. He is rewarded with a small, sharp intake of breath. “You always look cool when you’re doing your best.”

The praise sends a shiver through Mishima’s body, and they are pressed close enough that it’s easy to detect it through his small back against Akira’s chest. Feeling bolder by the minute, Akira slides a hand down Mishima’s hip, slow and gentle and ready to stop at a moment’s notice, but Mishima simply leans back into his hand, his breaths quickening. It’s not the best place to be getting turned on, honestly, but Akira finds it hard to stop now when Mishima is all pliant and warm and wanting against him.

“Ah—”

The sudden moan freezes Akira’s hand where it was sliding over the back of Mishima’s bared thigh, and from the way Mishima claps a hand to his mouth, it seems like the smaller boy hadn’t expected that either. A few adrenaline-fueled heartbeats pass and Akira slides his fingers down again, experimenting, and Mishima twists under his touch, hand still clamped over his mouth.

“Sensitive there, I see,” Akira says, and really it’s not just Mishima who’s weak because of his thighs right now. Mishima shuffles his feet nervously, fidgeting the hem of his shirt over the front of his shorts.

“I need to change,” he says again, not at all convincing in how breathy he sounds, and from the slight, embarrassed tone in his voice it seems like Mishima has a rising new problem. Akira slides his other hand over Mishima’s, the one that’s feebly trying to tug his shirt lower, and presses in. He feels _that new problem_ against his boyfriend’s hand, and Mishima barely manages to swallow back another moan.

“Need help with that?” Akira teases, and Mishima darts a glance around the empty room, tense from both his arousal and the place they’re in.

“Uh—here? _Really?_ ”

“You’re going to have to do something about this anyway. With or without me.”

“Ngh—” It’s cute the way that Mishima is weighing his options, leaning into Akira’s touch while battling with his self-consciousness, and soon enough Mishima mutters, “make it quick.”

“Quick. Gotcha.” Akira squeezes his hand over Mishima’s fingers, and the other releases a strangled yelp as he ends up squeezing too, touching himself with Akira’s guidance, his fingers trembling between his own _problem_ and Akira’s skillful touch. His blush is hot enough that the heat is almost palpable, his breaths sweet and quick as he clumsily follows Akira’s lead. There’s something strangely erotic about this, rubbing his fingers against Mishima’s and feeling his boyfriend touch himself in turn, biting his sounds of pleasure into his sleeve as he leans heavily against his locker for support.

 “Nhh—A-Akira—” The muffled, heated moan of his name fires a jolt of arousal through Akira’s veins, and now he can’t help but notice how tight his own pants have become. With reluctance he pulls his hand away, tugging lightly at the waistband of Mishima’s shorts and trying to ignore the disappointed sigh from his boyfriend at the loss of contact.

“If you want it quick,” he says, his voice husky from lust. He doesn’t need to continue to persuade Mishima, and after a moment of hesitation Mishima gives his consent, wiggling his hips as he slides his shorts off. It’s almost frustrating how he doesn’t know how seductive he looks, tugging his underwear down with a shy glance at Akira over his shoulder, breathing heavy and expectant. When Mishima grasps his sports jacket, Akira presses into him. “Keep that on.”

Mishima lifts an eyebrow at that request, but lets his hands fall away. He’s too eager for more to question Akira’s tastes, and when Akira unzips his pants the sound makes him shiver with anticipation.

“Have any lube on you?” Akira whispers, and Mishima blushes even more furiously as he grapples onto his locker in haste.

“Uh—I might—Ngh!” Akira really shouldn’t be distracting Mishima right now, but the way he’s struggling to open his locker with trembling fingers is far too cute, and Akira strokes his boyfriend’s shaky thighs, palming the soft flesh in his hands. It’s a miracle when Mishima does get his locker open, slamming the door wide from sinking his weight too heavily in for support. “Ah, Akira—”

He can get used to the sound of his name being called like this, in such a high-pitched, needy whine. “The lube?” he teases, kissing his way down Mishima’s neck, and Mishima squeezes his thighs in obvious discomfort from his arousal as he paws at his bag. When he produces nothing but a bottle of expensive hand lotion, Akira can’t quite hide his confusion.

“For my arms. They’re—they’re a bit sore after practice,” Mishima manages, and then glances at Akira meekly. “I—uh—I think I’m out of…you know…”

“This will do,” Akira assures him, and Mishima’s face melts into obvious relief. While the lotion certainly can’t be used for more intimate acts, there are other things Akira can do to relieve both of them. He squirts the lotion out onto his hand, and after a moment he recognizes the sweet and subtle fragrance. Haru must’ve lent this to Mishima, out of her gentle concern for him. Akira apologizes to her silently, feeling guilty for using her expensive hand cream for something much dirtier than she had intended.

He nudges his knee between Mishima’s legs, and slowly, bashfully, Mishima parts them. He jumps a little at the cold feel of the lotion against the inside of his thighs, but soon relaxes into Akira’s soothing touch. Hearing the sound of Mishima’s soft, sweet pants is addling, especially with the scent of the strawberry lotion, and Akira swallows the sudden excess of saliva as he rubs slow, sensual circles into his boyfriend’s thighs. The heat from Mishima’s arousal warms the back of Akira’s hand, needy and wanting, and it isn’t long before Akira loses his patience too. He palms his own hardened length with the lotion before pulling at Mishima’s waist, leaning them over, him into Mishima’s back and Mishima bracing his arms against the locker. Mishima jerks at the feel of Akira’s cock sliding between his thighs, letting out a surprised squeak.

“Nn—Akira?”

“It’s alright. Close your legs,” Akira coaxes, and Mishima obeys. When his thighs press together, squeezing down on Akira’s cock, the slick tightness and soft warmth is enough to undo him. He draws in a quick, shuddering breath, trying to pull his mind together into some form of coherency before thrusting into the space between Mishima’s thighs.

“Ah—Ngh—” Mishima’s voice leaks out of him again, embarrassed and yet aroused, his arms trembling against the lockers he’s leaning on as Akira ruts against him. His thighs tighten, more out of embarrassment than anything, and the pressure squeezes down on Akira and squeezes electricity out of him. It feels good, it feels nice, and the lotion glides him effortlessly through the warm, tight space.

It’s unbecoming of him to neglect his boyfriend’s needs (even if Akira is having difficulty focusing, because Gods does Mishima’s thighs feel good), so he glides his lubed hand down to Mishima’s attention-starved cock. At contact, Mishima throws his head back and lets out a loud moan. “Ahh—Ahh, Akira—!”

Akira chuckles deep, nosing into the small of Mishima’s back as he wraps his fingers tenderly around Mishima’s length. “Aren’t you afraid of drawing attention?”

There’s no reply; not that Akira is expecting any different, from the way Mishima is panting and rubbing into his hand, jerky and needy and losing his reserved shyness thrust by thrust. Akira squeezes, helping, his fingers tracing an experienced path along the underside of Mishima’s cock, pressing down into the vein he can feel. Mishima chokes down something between a whine and a sob, sliding down the lockers and into Akira’s braced arm from his weakening strength. “You’re doing great,” Akira murmurs, adjusting his grip and thrusting harder into Mishima, “if you want to come, Yuuki, go ahead—”

And Mishima does, all shuddering tension one second and all arched back and strangled cry the next. Akira grips the head of Mishima’s cock, trying to catch the spill before there’s too much of a mess to clean, and the warm, sticky fluid coats his fingers. As Mishima relaxes from his orgasm, slumping into the lockers, Akira presses kisses into his boyfriend’s slackening back.

“Not much longer,” he promises, and Mishima responds by tightening his thighs again, rocking his hip back to meet Akira’s pace. The renewed pressure sends waves of pleasure up Akira’s cock, and he shutters his eyes and lets himself rut against Mishima, enjoying the feel of his slicked thighs, the sweet smell of the lotion, the sounds of Mishima’s laboured pants. The final push over the edge is the feel of Mishima’s thumb, tentatively tracing the tip of his cock, warm and small and flickering like a tongue, and Akira presses hard against his boyfriend and lets the pressure out and into Mishima’s waiting hand.

They stay like that for a moment, trying to pull the pieces of themselves back together from whatever kind of sex that was, breathless and spent. “Are you alright?” Akira finally manages, pulling himself up and steadying Mishima.

“My jacket,” Mishima mutters under his breath, still too embarrassed to look at Akira in the eye, “I’m going to have to wash it.”

“I’ll wash it for you,” Akira promises, and Mishima snorts a little as he mock-slaps Akira’s arm on his waist.

“You’re washing all of it,” Mishima says. “Now would you please let me get dressed so I can get out of here?”

It’s a great idea to come to watch Mishima’s practices more often, Akira thinks, slipping out of the locker room with a smile. A great idea indeed.

* * *

 


End file.
